In Your Shadow
by sukiyuki x
Summary: We know John Shepard's story, but what about his brother? Didn't know he had one? They don't talk about him much. Follow James Shepard as he progresses from dish washer to hero... or will he? He'll be lucky if he doesn't die, really. Takes place in ME2.
1. Omega

**A/N: **First story, please help make it better! I'm unsure whether there will be a friendship or romance between Tali and James yet. Or do you think he would be better off with someone else?

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**1. Omega: What A Pisshole**

_In which there are slightly intelligent vorcha_

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"Commander Shepard! Can we take a minute of your time?"

His eyes flickered over the clambering masses of reporters. How had they managed to find him and then arrived so quickly? He knew that he had been dead for years, and was news ever since the Battle of the Citadel, but they could have been foaming at the mouth. Well, they did look practically feral; just about ready to attack each other for an exclusive interview with the elusive Commander. There were many faces, and he thought he should be able to recognise some of them as famous correspondents, but he didn't anyway. He had better things to do than watch someone talking trash about someone else on the extranet – he hadn't seen a report that told the slightest bit of truth about Shepard, not since Emily Wong, at least, and that had been two years ago.

One button on his omni-tool and the extranet link was terminated. He _did _have better things to do than practically stalk Shepard – the pile of dirty dishes, for example, seemed to be calling to him... or it could have been the smell making him hallucinate again. It wouldn't be the first time, anyway. He risked a glance over his shoulder and noted with relief that his boss, Ordan, was still on his break. If he'd been gone this long, it probably meant that he'd somehow gotten into Afterlife and had a few too many, and wouldn't be back for the best part of an hour at least. Again, it wouldn't be the first time.

_But such is life on Omega,_ James Shepard sighed dramatically, as he armed himself with gloves and brush and scrubbed at the first plate. A passing turian recoiled at the smell and James met his gaze incredulously as he quickened his pace. Must be new to react like that, he concluded. He then wondered how the turian would react when he saw that batarian that always seemed to be passed out just around the corner from Kenn's Salvage. Or the vorcha. Or if he crossed paths with the merc gangs. James wished him luck; he had looked pretty well off and questioned whether he should have warned him about the countless numbers of petty thieves lurking the streets.

He found himself wondering what his brother would have done.

What _would_ John Shepard do? He'd changed a little ever since mysteriously reappearing. Not quite bipolar as some people would joke, but he did seem to be... sensitive to new options. Before his disappearance, some would call him a hero. A paragon, even. Now he wasn't so worthy of idolism. But he wasn't a bad person like some people would depict him – far from it! He was just... open to new options. His older brother had taken a fall from grace, sure, but at least Mother loved him.

James sighed again and looked down and his filthy apron. While his brother was out saving the galaxy, getting named the first human Spectre, having girls throw themselves at him left and right, and being surrounded by a great crew on a beautiful ship – every spacer kid's dream – James was washing dishes in the dingiest food stand on Omega. He'd been a marine once, too... for about a month. Why was he even washing dishes anyway? Surely there was some kind of technology to do that for him... _Just goes to show how cheap Ordan is_, he thought. _As if my pay wasn't proof enough._

He looked at the clock. Five minutes until the end of his shift, but he almost wished it wasn't. At least washing stains that looked far too close to skid marks for his liking off of plates in this piss-hole of a stand put credits in his pocket. His apartment was tiny and filthy and it depressed him. He always ended up thinking, while picking at whatever kind of slop he had bought or made for dinner, about his brother and the Normandy; he had seen one extranet report where they had snuck a camera on board to get a glimpse at the inner workings of the ship. It was always gleaming, and James could just imagine the perpetual new-ship smell it would have. One night he'd even cried about it. That was a phase, though, like a quarian on a Pilgrimage missing the flotilla, he guessed. Though he'd only seen the Normandy in person once.

James looked at the clock again. Three minutes and he was free to go, but he'd be back at the stand at seven in the morning the next day. And the next. And the next. He roughly replaced the plate among the others, producing a loud crash. Hearing this, a human man glanced at him. James put on an indifferent expression, but when the man looked away, he gingerly checked the plate for cracks. Luckily, it had sounded much worse than it really was, and the cheap thing hadn't even been chipped.

One minute left on that clock. James shrugged, hung up his apron and shoved his hands in his pockets. He made a show of nearly tripping over his own feet, then nearly missing when he tried to grab onto the counter for support. He was tempted to kick the counter in anger, but realised that with his luck, he would probably break his toe or something, and there was no way he could afford the medical bill for that.

He'd had enough of the stall and decided not to waste any more time there, quickly leaving the scene. Still annoyed by his earlier blunder, James slammed the door behind him as he unlocked and entered his apartment. It felt good. He practically threw himself onto his bed and grimaced as it creaked beneath him. He wasn't overweight; he was actually surprisingly fit for someone of his occupation – the job he'd had before was as a courier.

His eyes were drawn to a drawer by his cheap bed. That courier job had ended in violence. As it turned out, his boss had been a crooked guy – James had nearly been shot to pieces by Eclipse mercs when he had gone to deliver a package. He couldn't tell exactly what it was – possibly red sand – but Eclipse had wanted it. Badly. But by some work of God he had managed to escape them and deliver the package. He almost missed that job... the pay had been good.

Getting up, he opened the drawer and felt inside. There it was. James retrieved it from its resting place, being careful in his handling. A Predator heavy pistol. He turned it in his hands slowly. There was a thermal clip in the drawer, but he had never considered loading it. He wasn't even sure why he had bought it; it had made sense at the time, at least. Why had it? He tried to remember. Was it because of the gangs? No, they wouldn't waste their time with him. It was probably just because owning a gun was a necessity on Omega.

Then he remembered. The sound of a bullet fired at him, and barely missing. The feel of adrenaline racing through his veins as he sped away from the Eclipse mercenaries like a bat out of hell. The way he could _feel_ his heart pounding as he ran. The stiffness of the muscles in his legs as he succumbed to his burning lungs and gasped for breath. The feeling of victory as he realised the mercenaries were gone. The way everything just... fell into place.

Even the lowliest dishwasher on Omega has dreams, and that had been his. To be a soldier, to represent humanity. James looked down at the gun in his hands. The only thing stopping him from chasing that dream was him, he realised, and he didn't intend to hold himself back any more. Usually, a man like James's hands would be shaking as he held a gun for the first time in years, but his were steady as he loaded the thermal clip into the gun with a click and aimed it experimentally. Things were going to change. James smiled and set the gun on top of the table. Tomorrow would mark the beginning of his new life. He knew it would be hard, but he would survive anyway. That, he thought, was what it meant to be a Shepard. He wished it was tomorrow already.

_I probably should have bought something on the way back from work, _he mused. But he was too excited to eat anyway. The galaxy was waiting for him, after all. He didn't have time to be hungry.

That night, he dreamed of new worlds, waiting to be explored. Of ships, leaping through endless fields of stars. Of friends, who would help him along the way. And of destiny, calling him to find it.

He was disappointed to find that he was still in Omega when he awoke the next morning. It was a typical day on the station as far as he could tell; James thought he could hear some vorcha assaulting each other and some Blue Suns breaking it up (with their guns), someone being mugged, and a group of people gambling all at the same time. It sucked, but it was still home. _Not for long,_ he thought cheerily.

It took an energetic ten minutes to shower and throw on some relatively clean clothes, with his gun strapped to his belt. When he had caught himself in the mirror, he'd thought he looked badass, but he knew it would make no difference to any gangs. James had also stripped his apartment bare for any spare credits lying around or anything else of interest, and had been rewarded with a pouch of them and an edition of Fornax he didn't know he owned; bringing him to a decent total of credits and the revelation of what a female turian looked like minus clothes.

James was barely out of the door when he realised that he had no idea what he was doing. He was a dish washer, not a soldier; he'd worked up the courage to do something about his crap life, but now he was lost. What was he going to do now?

A plan, that was what he needed, so a plan he would make.

"1. Get a ship. 2. Get a crew. 3. Save galaxy somehow."

It had sounded better in his head.

James decided he would have to take small steps; he would start with the first two, and somehow stumble upon the third. That was how his brother did it, anyway. Unfortunately, he knew of two ways only to acquire a ship – the first being to buy one, and the second to steal one. He had nowhere near enough credits to buy a ship – not even a used one – and he had nowhere near enough balls to steal one.

He had started on his journey not ten minutes ago, and already he was stuck. Depressed, he slumped onto a bench and watched as the citizens of Omega went about their business. A shifty-looking salarian paused to look at him, then presumably try and sell him something, but decided that James probably couldn't afford a pot to piss in and moved on. It disheartened James to realise that salarian had probably been right. Then it occurred to him that Omega was the most run-down, grimy piece of rock he had ever stood on and he needed to get the hell off of it. Why he hadn't realised this before, he didn't know, but he did now.

Doing his best to avoid more attention from people, he made his way through the crowds to the dock. _The only thing I'll miss about Omega is... actually, I won't miss anything. _he realised with a smile. _I'm going to get out of here somehow. Smell some fresh air. Well. It'll be fresher than this place, anyway! _His good mood attracted more attention than his gun, summing up Omega quite perfectly in his eyes.

The dock wasn't as busy as the streets he had just walked along, but that could possibly have been due to the fact he had chosen the busiest part of town: the main entrance to the heart of Omega, Afterlife. James had never been inside, himself. He'd heard too many stories about it, and on Omega, there was no way of telling the truth from the lies other than experiencing it himself. James would rather not take the risk.

There were only a couple of ships at the dock he had chosen, which was, he thought, perfect. What wasn't so perfect was the kind of ships that were there: he'd dreamed of a seamlessly beautiful frigate, like the Normandy. What he saw in front of him was a shuttle and... well, it WAS a frigate, at least. It was considerably smaller than the one commanded by his brother, and it looked old. Ancient, even. But it flew, which was enough for him. He'd worry about finesse when he was far, far away from Omega.

But how, exactly, did he plan to acquire said frigate? He didn't know. Again, he'd hit a solid wall in his beautiful plan.

"Human."

Maybe he just needed to rethink his plan. It seemed solid in his head... maybe too solid... too simple? If he were to think out each step –

"HUMAN."

A hissing, almost rasping voice. Without looking up, James knew it couldn't belong to a human, and when he did, he saw a distinctly alien face looking back at him. He tried not to flinch, but he did anyway. A vorcha was standing, looking straight at him, arms folded. It was hard to tell, but James thought it could be amused. He didn't know vorcha could be amused.

"You want on ship?" it continued, unfolding its arms. It didn't break James's gaze, making him feel all the more uncomfortable. He coughed nervously. "No, um, it's not my ship-"

The vorcha screeched. Was it laughing? "Steal! You want ship, you will steal! Obvious! But do it alone, no. Too young. Weak. Stupid, too."

"I'm not going to sit here and get talked down to by a vorcha," he snapped angrily. His hand brushed the handle of his gun. "Piss off."

It screeched again. "Better. Still stupid, still weak. Me help. Steal ship. Leave Omega."

Two brain cells fired in unison in James's head, and he realised exactly what was happening. This vorcha wanted to help him steal the ship and get the hell off of Omega. This was it; his chance to start his new life. There was no way he was going to pass this up.

"So what do we need to do, um...?"

"Shrike." This vorcha, or Shrike, had a habit of finding James to be funny. James didn't know whether to be offended by this or not, but he knew that he was willing to help him, and that was enough. At least, he thought this Shrike was a he. "Stupid? All we need is find owner. Steal departure code. Then leave. So easy. Already checked ship. Big ship. But only one crew member. Easy, easy."

The reality of the operation hit James then and there. They were going to find someone and steal their ship. Someone's day was about to go horribly wrong. Someone's life was about to go horribly wrong, maybe. What would John do? How badly did he want to get off of Omega?

"Let's do it, then. I'm James Shepard, by the way."

He was met by another discordant laugh. He wished he could explain how it really grated a human's ears, but decided not to, against his better judgement. The events of the whole day were against his better judgement, actually. But luckily, without another word, the vorcha started off towards Afterlife.

Wait. "Hey, uh, Shrike, I can't go in there."

"Can go in... You are J. Shepard. John, James, no-one will know. Give ID." James passed it to him, more than slightly confused. And with that, Shrike passed straight by the angry line to the bouncer, nothing but confidence in his stride. James couldn't hear what Shrike was saying to the guard at the door, but it ended in the guard nodding and stepping aside, watching James wonderingly. The vorcha looked back over his shoulder before stepping inside.

"Hey, wait," James had to run to keep sight of Shrike in the busy club. "How did that work?"

Shrike bared his teeth slightly in a grin, and James couldn't help appreciating how sharp they were... "Tell later. Look now." He extended one claw to a figure at the bar. A turian. "Owner of ship. Me, steal codes. You, distract."

Something was a little strange about this turian, though. He got a little closer, and it took minimal scrutiny to recognise what had been off about them. This turian was _female_; it was simply hard to realise that underneath the armor. And unfortunately, she kept reminding him of the one James had... uh, seen... in Fornax. He didn't mention this to Shrike.

The turian female was leaning against the bar idly. His vorcha cohort nodded in his direction and blended seamlessly into the crowd... as seamlessly as a vorcha can, anyway. James took a deep breath and a step forward. _I have to do this to get off of this rock. How hard can it be, really?_


	2. Partnership

**A/N: **I have readers? Wait, I have reviews, too?! A shout-out and big thanks is in order for -.-, outlaw hunter, Darth, Brenediction and theluckyshot for my being my first five reviewers. I'm relieved to see that you haven't found any really serious problems with it. Yet.

(I know this A/N is massively long, but the story itself about the same length as the first chapter. I just really wanted to reply to the reviews.)

**-.- and outlaw hunter – **Not much to say other than thank you for your reviews – even reading a 'pretty good' or 'nicely done' helps me to keep trying my best. It's nice to hear - or read, as it were.

**Darth** – I'm really glad you like it. Hmm, I never actually thought about using her as a love interest... It's something I find myself seriously considering, especially as FemSheps are able to romance Garrus in ME2. It's definitely a possibility. And I'm happy you like Shrike! You don't see a lot of vorcha in stories, and if you do, please direct me to that story.

**Brenediction**: Thanks for your advice! This time, I tried (read: _tried_...) to take it a little slower. I actually noticed that it seemed rushed when I reread it, but I wanted to publish it anyway... If it's really bad, I may consider a minor rewrite. So is it that bad? Anyway, I hope it doesn't seem as rushed this time and that reviewers like you continue to tell me how to improve – I never was too good at self-corrections. I'll also be editing the first chapter soon, mainly to correct some minor grammatical issues and to fix that format. Feedback on this would be appreciated, too, if you have the time.

**theluckyshot** – _Fresh_? _Different_? Oh, stop, you're making me blush. Thank you very much for reading and taking the time to review, it really helps me to know that there is someone out there that enjoys reading this trainwreck... there are five of you already! I've already covered the format issue with my reply to Brenediction above, and I hope you'll find my writing less text wall-y and easier on the eyes from now on. If not, don't hesitate to tell me so. But as far as updates go, I don't want to write too much too soon and burn myself out (if that makes any sense at all) but I genuinely enjoy writing this story. Expect regular updates, if life is kind to me.

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**2. An Unlikely Partnership**

_In which there is an unforeseen yet favourable turn of events_

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"Hey," James felt his throat becoming hoarse - he had to shout at the very top of his voice in an attempt to be heard over the rhythmic pulsing of the music and the other patrons doing... drunk people things, but as it turned out, his efforts were totally wasted as the turian couldn't hear him anyway. His one voice was about as effective, it seemed, as a child trying to bring down a fortress wall by beating a twig against it. James could have sworn he saw her roll her eyes, though.

Bump.

A man who had been dancing in a drunken stupor practically fell onto him, stinking of cheap alcohol. He'd smelt worse things by far on the station, but it was sickening nonetheless to have a random drunk tumble on top of you. James pushed him back, but he only took it as an offer of help on James' part, and clapped him on the back obnoxiously, all while roaring something unintelligible at him. He couldn't tell, but it could have been an apology.

He wondered if it was always this crowded. It was obvious enough, though, that the inside was going to be packed upon seeing the line outside, with the elcor bouncer at its head. Nevertheless, he wasn't a people person.

Now he had two reasons to get out of Afterlife, though, so he swallowed his fear and inched closer to the turian. If anything went horribly wrong, he could just claim intoxication, right?

"HEY," he repeated, trying to ignore how sore his throat was now, and hoping that his voice would not break mid-sentence or anything like that. As she finally spared a glance in his direction, James leaned on the bar counter using his elbow. He'd seen it in the movies and it had looked cool, but in real life, executed by James, it just looked stupid.

But he wasn't to know, and prolonged the idiocy by shooting her a grin as she turned pay full attention to him. If only he was aware of how hard she was laughing at him inside, he might have tried a different approach, but sadly, he assumed that his ladykiller approach was working. I always knew that I was the one who had gotten the looks in the family, he thought, feeling quite self-satisfied.

"Want to dance?" was the opening query, and he did his best to hide the hopeful tone in his voice.

She did her best not to laugh. Unfortunately, she didn't do as well as James had. "No, thanks," she finally replied. "I'm fine with just me."

But she must have seen the crestfallen expression on his face as he realised that he had basically just blown his chance to get away from the station for good, and softened up a little. "Sorry. Did you need anything else?"

"Um," James began, as cogs in his brain turned frantically, trying to think of another way to distract her. "I... don't see a lot of turians around. Females, that is." He only realised how the comment could have been interpreted until after he'd said it.

"If you're some kind of fetishist..." she began slowly, but was interrupted as James frantically attempted to correct his mistake. "No, no, nothing like that!" He felt a wave of panic wash over him; there was a bouncer watching him warily out of the corner of his eye. But he was drawn back to the matter at hand by her laugh.

_She's just messing with me_, he realised, _or at least I hope she is_... _god, I hope Shrike has the codes... _He peered casually over her shoulder in an endeavour to locate his vorcha companion. And he didn't realise the proportions of this mistake until the turian followed his gaze.

Well, Shrike was there. His hand was halfway inside the turian's back pocket.

In the seconds before the shitstorm he knew was due to arrive as a result of this, James contemplated things in a remarkably calm way. She could either realise that Shrike was trying to steal from her, or think that he was trying to subtly grope her. Either way, they were royally screwed. He braced for impact.

Nothing happened for a minute. Shrike, apparently seeing a golden opportunity, attempted to run. But for the umpteenth time that night, the ridiculously ungraceful man that had bothered James not five minutes ago decided to screw things up by ramming into the vorcha as he tried to make his escape.

Another roar of a laugh and an apology were given by the offender before he disappeared again into the crowd. Hopefully for good this time. Because judging by the furious look on Shrike's face, that man would die if he ever crossed his path again. James didn't know if he would stop him.

Then a bitter, cold feeling spread through his being as his body registered what was unmistakeably the barrel of a gun digging into his back, interrupting all his trains of thought. The fear reached his throat, which quickly became dry, cracked and tight with horror, so he looked to Shrike, who, although vorcha emotions were new to him, looked as panicked as James felt.

"Listen to me."

She spoke too confidently, in the two-toned voice common to most turian, but with an uncommon, almost blithe tenor underlying, which James was unsure of; maybe it was due to gender, or maybe it was just this one woman. Despite the good-humoured sort of twang to her voice, it sent a chill down his spine that was previously unfelt.

"You start a fight in here, then, as I once heard a human say, the shit will hit the fan. Aria's guards are _right there_. Walk outside. Now." She stabbed the pistol into the small of James' back to emphasize her point, but it was unneeded. James was sure she was very aware of how he had shivered when she spoken with that dread authority.

Shrike had progressed past the state of panic, however, and James thought that this wasn't the worst situation the vorcha had found himself in before – the numerous scars that he had overlooked before could have been proof of that - now, he looked simply mutinous. He didn't move.

"I don't like repeating myself," she murmured, and adjusted her gun with a mechanical click. James really wished she wouldn't do that while it was pointed directly at him. "I understand that you vorcha can be pretty stupid... This is a pistol, see? Go outside."

He held his breath, 100% expecting Shrike to snap and for them all to be gunned down by the guards, but by some miracle, all that the turian's patronising words received from him was a snarl. Then he turned and stalked towards the exit. James was quick to follow. He didn't want the gun jammed in his back again; it had hurt the first time.

They didn't receive any attention from others. Afterlife was particularly full that day, even as early as it was, and the patrons were preoccupied with their own matters. Mostly getting smashed, as it were. It also didn't help that the turian had now positioned herself close to him, and moved her arm so that her posture couldn't be interpreted as 'ready to blow out someone's lower intestines' by any passersby.

He tried to admire the long corridor that was the exit as they travelled down it to detract attention away from his pumping heart, but it felt like putting a bow on a dog turd. The flame graphics were probably there to attract attention away from the mouldy walls and floor; he wondered how many cleaners they employed there. He guessed it would be a single digit number.

"Good boy," purred the turian as Shrike finally stopped at the dock, away from the crowds, away from Afterlife, his path dictated quietly by her as they walked. Nobody had noticed the hostage situation they had gotten themselves into there, nobody would here, and she knew it. "Would you mind telling me _exactly_ what you were trying to pull back there?"

Something was urging James to own up. Just tell her _everything_, and maybe she would understand: who he was, why he needed to get the hell away from his old life. He opened his mouth to do just that, but ended up jamming it shut again. What the hell was that going to help? What was wrong with him?! He had a very limited choice of words here. He needed to make them count.

"Um." Story of his life. "Well..."

The turian folded her arms, and her mandibles flicked in clear annoyance. "I'm listening."

Something finally clicked in his mind when she did this. In a flash, he drew his own gun from his belt and fired moments before Shrike lunged.

Deliberately, the shot had barely missed, leaving a shell-shocked moment's pause before she would spring back into action; it was a good thing that Shrike had other ideas. He launched himself like a wild animal at its prey, knocking her clean off of her feet, and finally pinning her to the ground. James was taken aback to see what he'd become: not the same alien he'd spoken to earlier. This vorcha was better described as a violent demon – snarling and snapping and writhing with fury. Apparently he'd remembered the patronising incident earlier.

"Departure codes. Give them. NOW." James swallowed. In all honesty, had it been him in the situation of the unfortunate turian whose face was now warped with terror... well, awkward as it was to admit, even privately to himself, he feared for the state of his pants.

Oddly, there was only a brief moment before the turian recollected her senses. The terror was, apparently, banished from her mind and was replaced with a look that could only be described as obstinate. "Take them, if you want them so badly," she snarled. "I can't say it'll do you any good."

James thought about her last statement for a moment. Now that the tables were turned, he realised that all of the bright-and-breezy elements about her had been tossed out of a metaphorical airlock. The way she spoke, most of all, reflected her mood. It had been appealing and definitely easier on the ears when she had spoken before, but now, that tone was null and void; there was only annoyance where he listened for it. He guessed she didn't like losing, but hardly any turians did, with their authoritarian code of honour.

If that was the case, and she followed their strict chain of command, then why would she be lying? He looked at Shrike, who had barely loosed his grip on her throat, and was baring his teeth threateningly. This made him shudder; Shrike had done the same thing to him not too long ago, but it had been a grin. Here and now, though, the meaning couldn't have been more different. There were many spiked sort of facets to a vorcha's face, and all of them were contorted with anger.

Then James realised why he hadn't killed her yet: he was waiting for a go-ahead – from _him_. Shrike was not only in control of his emotions, but was wondering what to do with their captive. James didn't know what to think of him any more: this vorcha was easily the strangest he'd ever met. Shrike had a completely different agenda from what was expected of his kind as far as James had seen – he, not to mention the turian, would already have been dead if he didn't, James realised – he had helped James almost without question, when he probably could have done better without.

Roughly pushing these enquiries to the back of his mind, he knew he had to make a decision, and cleared his throat. It was still dry, but not because someone was pointing a loaded weapon at him this time, which he wholly preferred.

"Why won't it do us any good?" He had decided to give her a chance. And she wasn't stupid; she knew that Shrike was fully prepared to rip her to shreds, and seemed perfectly willing to take what he was offering.

"You'd better let me explain," she started. It looked like she was having a hard time swallowing her pride. "But it would be a lot easier if I could get up."

James watched while Shrike removed her gun and, very, very hesitantly took a step backwards to allow the turian space to get up. He still looked very ready to attack her. She coughed at the sudden relief of pressure as he did. Apparently, she had been hurt by his pounce, and she had just done a very good job of hiding it; James couldn't help but think about what was driving her to this. Was it another instance of turian honour, or was she just stubborn?

The latter option would be dangerous for her... and James wasn't a killer. So she wasn't the only one hiding something, after all. He _really_ didn't want to take the confrontation into violent territories, and he didn't want Shrike to, either. Although he felt that the vorcha would act – that is, if he felt it to be necessary. It didn't look like it would come to that for now, though, which was a relief.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shrike examining his claws nonchalantly. This, he thought, could mean either of two things, and both would be pretty bad. Possibly, he was adopting a jaded approach to the situation, and could decide that she wasn't worth their time; or he was becoming annoyed with her, which was worse. James looked at her and noticed that she was hunched over slightly. He didn't know much about turians, but he thought that her breaths were coming too quickly, too shallowly, to be healthy, and that Shrike had inflicted unseen damage to her. He didn't seem to be concerned about it at all. Was that right? Did they all really need to be so hostile?

"I have some medi-gel if y-" James began, but she raised a hand and waved him off dismissively mid-sentence. He'd tried offering an olive branch, but she didn't seem to have any interest in accepting; an injudicious action, especially considering the situation. He was unsure if this was an act of dislike or whether she was just being obstinate again.

"Let me tell you about that ship." She stood upright now, but it looked like she had tossed her previous pigheadedness to the wind. An arm was wrapped around her side protectively. A spike of guilt shot through James, and he wondered why it did now and not when he nearly shot her earlier.

"Firstly, it's not my ship - it's an Alliance vessel, and had a crew of humans-"

"Doesn't look like Alliance. Look at the state of it. Lying." Shrike stated in a fairly brusque tone of voice, and automatically reached for his gun. "No time for lies."

The turian held up the hand that wasn't pressed to her side. "Hear me out before you pass judgement. I was actually coming to that."

He met her gaze with narrowed eyes, hissed, and backed off, if only a little.

"They picked up my escape pod somewhere in the Omega Nebula, I don't know where exactly." This drew another look from Shrike, but she continued anyway. "The crew were headed to the Citadel, and they were going to drop me off there. The mass relay was literally in their sights. Then..."

She had stopped, and was suddenly very interested in admiring Omega's vista. Knowing that Shrike wouldn't stand for much more, James decided it was time to intervene. "Then?" he pressed.

"We were attacked. I don't know who or what by... I wish I did. Before you ask how I survived –"she turned to look at Shrike, who was, incidentally, about to interject- "I ran to the cargo hold and hid in a secure crate. I was unarmed, what did you expect me to do? "

Something had changed in her voice again. James had no words to describe it himself other than the ones that appeared in his mind when he heard her speak; hollow, desolate, forlorn. Even Shrike seemed to have lost interest in his verbal attacks, and was looking elsewhere, though James knew he was fully aware of everything she was saying, and would say hereafter. There was something she wasn't telling them about the attack, but he was unsure if he wanted to know if it what it was.

"They ripped the ship apart. I think they used some kind of beam weapon, judging purely by sound, and what was left of the ship when I got here and looked properly. They... the crew... tried to fight back. Since I was in that crate, I got thrown around to hell and back in that cargo hold. I must have hit my head really hard, because I got knocked out at some point. When I woke up... the crew was gone."

Icy fingers traced over his skin, causing a shudder. James knew, somehow, that she wasn't lying. "Gone? All of them? All of this happened in the Omega Nebula?"

She nodded, eyes still fixed on the horizon.

"Fortunately, I know a bit about tech; I activated emergency protocols and got the hell out of there before they could completely demolish the ship. They weren't expecting anyone to be alive. But the navigation systems on the ship were fried. The ship has next to no maps. You'd be flying blind out there."

Sometimes help can come from the most unexpected of sources.

"Team up," suggested Shrike. His arms were still folded. He was still looking away and appeared uninterested. But in the short while James had known him, he realised what that statement would mean coming from him. "Don't know anything about tech. James, well... Useless. Could team up, get away from Omega."

Clearly, she hadn't considered this before, but she did now, and it seemed to make more than sense to her. It was a viable solution. She looked up, and James recognised too much of his old life in her expression.

"Just tell us what you need to fix the ship."

Smiling hopefully, he extended a hand to her. She looked at him as if he had just grown a third arm.

Then she outstretched her hand.

It was the second olive branch he had offered her that day. It was the first she accepted.

"One more thing, though," James asked, shaking her hand warmly, and then letting go. She looked worried when he said this, but he was sure that she would be back to her stubborn self again soon.

"What's your name?"

Her mandibles flicked in what James thought was shock, but it quickly passed. He didn't know a lot about alien expressions, especially not when he saw the many edges that seamlessly formed a turian's face, but some things translate perfectly across species.

She was smiling.

"I'm Shana. Shana Vythaelis."

Sometimes help can come from the most unexpected of sources, but the same can be said for friends. It was an unexpected partnership, but one that James knew he would come to cherish in time.


	3. Hope

**A/N: **Reviews make me a happy panda - so does the hits shooting up! There is a total of 503 hits to this story... fffff... might cry tears of joy. 135 hits on Friday is the current record for hits in one day. (But if I have 550 hits, surely a few more of you could leave anon reviews or something? hint, hint) Apparently you people would rather read fanfiction on a Friday than go outside or something. I fully support your decision, by the way. :D

But why, you ask, am I telling you about hits? You might have guessed that I recently discovered the traffic tab that you can find after you click on your username. And I know nobody cares but me. I care A LOT. Feels good, man. Again, the story is the same length as usual, just long replies to reviews.

Oh, and update = late because it was my birthday on Tuesday and I forgot to finish this. Sorry.

**Brenediction – **I thought the end could have been less rushed, also, but I think it came out wrong... That aside, thanks for becoming a regular reviewer to this fic (if two reviews counts as regular), and I'm actually sort of relieved you're still enjoying it. I have to admit – I fear that over time this story could lose the 'tone' it had in the first few chapters... I mean, it scares me that it could become monotonous and forced. I've seen it happen to fiction that was miles better than mine. I'm not worried about ideas, I have loads, though I wouldn't be opposed to some from you all. In summary, if you can find anything like this to pick at, then do, whether it's the format or the speed of the story.

**-.- **Thank you, again. I intend to keep them coming, it's just the speed of which I plan to do so that I need to be careful with. I've had this idea for so long, and I'd like to keep the quality good and high. The 'lols' are there because James is James, and I'd like some light-hearted moments with the team before this fic turns into Depressionville. If it does. It would be have to make a hell of a u-turn to get there, I think.

**outlaw hunter** – Define 'great team' :D! The drunk guy actually came to me when I was remembering some of the shenanigans my friend has gotten herself into... Hmm, 'shenanigans'... I love that word. Need to weave that into the story somehow. Thanks!

**theluckyshot – **To tell the truth, when people mentioned the format for the first time I spent a good while running around like a headless chicken – well, I didn't really, but it's for demonstration's sake – wondering what it meant, because I always think of format as an umbrella term for a lot of things. Eventually I worked out that you were talking about the alignment. How did I miss it?... Also, feel free to keep the compliments coming, too. I read them and giggle like a schoolgirl with a crush... no, that sounds bad. You know what I mean, right? Some of you may be happy to know that I'm seriously starting to consider Shana as the main interest now. You people have put thoughts in my head. Keep reviewing!

**Starmast3r – **Hello, new reviewer. Pull up a stool, get comfy, order a drink or two, because we sure are going to be here for a while, story-wise. I have so many ideas for the plot. Too many. Anyway, because you've written me a lovely, lengthy review, I shall write you a lovely, lengthy reply. Joy!

Now, this sounds so egotistical, but the term 'diamond in the rough' comes to mind, at least for me. Not regarding my story, but other original ideas on this site. I love a good fic, but there's got to be over 9000 boring same-plot stories... I personally loathe self inserts - I'm sure they can be well-written too – but I've yet to see one. Well hey, I can't be writing a self insert here, because I'm a girl last time I checked. Phew. Also... I don't know about that female batarian, even I can't get a really clear idea of that, but a male quarian... how did you know?! ;) Keep your eyes open for that pig.

Informative and detailed... Hee, hee. Quirky and hilarious, double hee hee. And about the James/Shana pairing – it has 3 supporters now. Like I said to theluckyshot – you people are putting ideas in my head. Indoctrination, I say! Does your name happen to be Sovereign in real life? No? And now I find myself agreeing they would be sort of cute, though I doubt Shana would agree with those exact words, anyway. As far as the descriptions go, I have been deliberately holding back on those. I've already given one spoiler up there (couldn't resist!), but I can say you'll get them soon. And James knows a LOT from Fornax magazines. Probably, he gets 60% of his knowledge of aliens from there. Oh dear.

When you say 'won't be able to sleep until you do'... The night after I post a chapter, I sometimes find myself stabbing the F5 key until the number of reviews goes up. I can't sleep until you review. ಠ_ಠ It's pretty sad and I give up after 5 minutes anyway. So, I hope you enjoy the ride – there will be one, so I hope – and remember to keep your arms and legs inside the cart at all time and keep your wallet close to you so it doesn't fall out of your pocket when you go upside-down and always bring enough friends so that you don't get stuck alone with a random fat man inside a cramped cart and god I can't breathe he's crushing me, also does this guy ever WASH, and how did I afford tickets to a theme park in the recession anyway?... Based on a true story. Keep reviewing, seeing that little number going up makes me very happy!

* * *

**3. A Glimmer of Hope**

_In which progress is made, but not in the direction they were anticipating_

* * *

They didn't waste any more time in the dock; Shana had become anxious at the thought of anyone witnessing what had happened, and ushered them into the ship. Dilapidated as it was, the vessel still offered a valuable shelter from outside. But James knew he would have a hard time getting used to it as a home.

The soft _whoosh_ of the airlock, which, luckily, was still intact, heralded their entrance. James felt a long sigh escape him as he looked around, which drew a curious gaze from Shana. "I knew it was going to be hard, but... You really weren't kidding, were you?"

The airlock had been designed, seemingly, for larger ground teams, due to size and decontamination capacity. It was the most pristine part of the ship, and James thought that they would be better for it. If Shrike had still carried doubt about Shana's story, then it would probably have left him by that time. He had, and it did. James watched him for a little while as he boldly toured the ship, arranging scrap metal into a pile in the middle of what James thought could have been a CIC. When queried, Shrike simply explained that he was 'housekeeping'. This was slightly confusing, as Shrike really hadn't seemed like the type to keep everything tidy, but he definitely was an example of anomalous behaviour among species. James decided not to judge on appearances anymore.

A different reaction was happening right beside him. Though he couldn't help but notice the limp she bore from the earlier fight, his new turian colleague still held herself high as she also explored the ship. Shana, whose stride was slow and careful, didn't venture beyond the CIC; she traced long fingers along rails and the remains of computer consoles. James also noticed that she didn't touch the ones that were working and considered that she might had fixed them herself.

But he still wanted to understand her a little better. "What are you doing?" It was only fair; he'd asked Shrike the same question. She jolted up from her trance-like state to look at him, and for a moment, said nothing. Neither did James, and the only noise was of Shrike and the metal until she finally spoke. "Remembering." was the simple answer. She watched him for a moment almost mournfully, but soon enough it occurred to her that she was displaying something other than the emotion that is persistent pig-headedness, and the result was a quick averting of the eyes. She crouched down to one of the flickering consoles, the familiar shape of an omni-tool appearing around her hand.

"Do you need help?" he offered. Of all the things he currently wanted to do, lazing around a crumbling ship while everyone else did the work was not high on the list. There had to be some way to make himself useful.

She didn't turn to look at him, but as usual, her voice expressed enough. Now it was half serious, half joking. James guessed the equivalent for humans would be raising an eyebrow, but this revelation didn't make him feel any better about what she was about to say. "The vorcha said that you had no more tech knowledge than a small child."

He flushed tomato red at the truth of her words. "Er, well, I'll be... around." There was that smile again. Well, at least he had served to amuse her.

Needing an escape from his embarrassment, James returned his attention to the ship that they would soon be piloting, if all went well, and Shana had the resources she needed. Surprisingly, there were a few elements of the ship he did recognise, but there were a few he felt he should have. Growing up as a spacer, it would be hard not to have picked up a few names of the more vital components, and some of the lingo, too. On one of the working consoles, he recognised some of the familiar components: FTL drive. Thruster module status reports. ELSA capability. GARDIAN batteries. This triumph, though small, brought a smile to his face. The fact that most of these systems all seemed to be outlined in red – it didn't take a genius to guess that this was bad – did not.

He decided not to bother Shrike. since he didn't have enough self-esteem for him to attack anymore, and would probably only succeed in annoying him. James decided it was time to man up and take the initiative.

The CIC wasn't drastically different to the state-of-the-art one the Normandy boasted. Some of the elements were the same: the stations lining the short way to the pilot's cockpit, for example. But they weren't as streamlined as his brother's frigate. Firstly, that was because this one was in pieces. Secondly, it seemed that the ship, though originally purposed for stealth and recon as all frigates are, had been retrofitted for dominance and endurance in combat. There was no raised map platform as the focal point for the room, but there was slightly elevated ledge that James didn't know the purpose of. There were no displays on said platform; it was just a large nondescript table thing. He purposed himself to ask Shana later, when she'd forgotten about earlier.

And there were more combat stations and status consoles. A lot more. It made sense, with the rare design of the ship. He tapped one open and had a brief read of what it displayed. When Shana, curious as to why the display had become active, looked over, James pretended to be immersed in the wall of text, interested even. He was relieved when she resumed her work and didn't hesitate to close it again. It was just a load of jargon to him; he guessed it could be due to the fact that the systems had been fried when Shana had fled the oncoming attack. Or maybe it would make perfect sense to her.

The first problem with the ship was all the debris, but Shrike was taking care of that already. He had neglected the CIC on the whole so far, though, bar his scrap pile; on occasion, Shrike would practically skip into the room and dump some more on it. He didn't bother to make conversation, and looked almost happy with his job – as happy as a vorcha can - so James didn't bother, either.

In an attempt to be useful, he started gathering up the wreckage that wouldn't be of any use to the repairs. Some of the salvage was interesting: a hollow canister that James found when he had moved a loose panel contained some chocolate bars caught his eye the most. But then he felt bad. Maybe this had been someone's stash.

Just as he began to fall into a confortable work pattern, he was shaken from his task by a familiar two-toned voice. It wasn't directed at him, though. "Shrike, I need you to... get something for me." James hated how, although it conveyed Shana's emotion all too perfectly, it was next to impossible to determine her motives it.

However, the request for help must have intrigued the vorcha; James was surprised to see that he was paying full attention. More than he paid James, anyway.

Shrike half-shrugged as if to say 'go on' and resumed tidying the pile. "There must be somewhere on Omega where you can find maps. I can probably get this thing flying eventually, but we still need that navigational data, and some new material for the hull-"

The vorcha waved her off, in a way that James could only really describe as superficial. That was another thing you wouldn't capture your average vorcha doing, _but_, he reminded himself, _anything is possible here on the SS Buttcrack_. "Will do it," Shrike confirmed, and then he was gone, leaving the two remaining crew members feeling quite perplexed in light of the strange circumstances.

"That was... easier than I'd anticipated," murmured Shana; with a touch, her omni-tool faded away, and she got up. "Well, I've finished repairs on most of the crucial systems."

"That didn't take too long," It hadn't. James silently admitted to feeling jealous. "Just like that?"

In the way of a reply, she folded her arms, unimpressed, and James started to beat himself mentally for annoying her or whatever else he had done. "Maybe I'm just really good. _Really_ good."

No, she wasn't annoyed. Far from it, she was smiling. Again. James could have groaned; she did seem to enjoy teasing him. He was going to take that 'fetishist' comment he had made in Afterlife with him to the grave.

While he stood, silently, considering things furiously, Shana pulled herself onto one of the inactive consoles, watching the thousand looks, or expressions, crossing his face. It got a little hard to identify them. _Humans,_ she thought, _are too interesting._

But she had a little trouble telling what they were feeling. James in particular. If only he had the proper mandibles with which to express himself. "Sorry to interrupt," The whole situation amused her to no end, and it brought some small degree of dismay to stop it here; though Shana thought it would be better for him to quit while he was ahead. "but there is something I could use your help with."

James made a mental note never, ever to get lost in thought again while he was around these people. "Alright," He was curious as to what she wanted, exactly; there wasn't much he could help with on the ship.

"I haven't had the chance to check the ship for, say, contraband, or resources yet. I'd appreciate it if you could help."

His face lit up. Not only had James wanted to find a way to help with the repairs, but he wanted to know a little more about – well – he would say 'shipmates', though it wasn't in any state to fly, but now he thought of them as friends. He didn't know what Shana would say to this, and he didn't plan to ask.

"I'll help."

James wasn't keeping count, but he felt like they had been cleaning for hours. He also felt like it would be complaining to reveal this, so he did his best not to reveal his growing fatigue. It was hard.

But it was the last room in the ship left to clear, and he could at least admit to some measure of excitement as they shifted the remainder of the debris out of what Shana identified as the cargo hold. James wondered if she ever had trouble reading his expressions, because when they entered that particular room, he couldn't read hers. He remembered, later, that it was the room she had run to during the attack, and then determined not to mention it to her.

Then the purpose that was leaving Omega took her over, and she settled into her work with a steely resolve. James was the only one exposed to this, as Shrike was still absent on his strange mission. On occasion, Shana would stop to yell advice or abuse, depending on how badly he was messing up, at him. He didn't mind. In the end, he was helping, no matter how little. And he knew that he would find something to do soon – something he was good at, even.

"Why are you so intent on leaving here?" she eventually asked. James wasn't sure whether the questioning would turn into an interrogation or not. Maybe she was trying to make small talk. He gave her the benefit of the doubt.

"Have you looked outside?" he returned, with a joking tone to his voice as he struggled with a metal beam.

But he should have known it wouldn't be that easy, anyway. "No, I meant why did you, specifically, want to leave Omega? Is that the only reason? Because it's dirty?"

This was something for him to think about. There were many reasons he could name, but whether she would be interested in any of them was a different story entirely. James glanced over to see that she had stopped working. _Then it must be a serious question._ Putting the beam to one side, he was taken aback at how light his arms felt. He experimented with this for a minute before answering her.

"Do you know John Shepard? – wait – that's a stupid question. Who _doesn't_ know him?" He posed his arms dramatically for effect. "He's the hero of the galaxy! The first human Spectre! And me? I'm just his failure of a brother. Nobody even knows I exist. Reporters love him, girls love him, everyone loves him. I'm not trying to be better than him, I just want to be better than me."

Apparently she had noticed that the beam had been giving him trouble, and stepped over and moved it herself. He appreciated this, but wondered how she could manage it with her injury. She was either really, really strong, or really, really good at hiding things. There was a fifty-fifty chance of either.

"Well," Her words were slow, and she was treading carefully. James didn't know why. He had been put down so many times recently that he was developing a tendency to become immune to insults. Whenever he thought of an anecdote for this, all that came to mind was a parasite developing a resistance to antibiotics. "I know you exist, so does Shrike. Personally, I'd prefer to be unknown than familiar with reporters. Especially that al-Jilani woman. If girls love him as easily as you say, then do they really? They just love his fame, I think. And you're not a failure; don't even start. Well. Maybe when it comes to heavy lifting..."

He'd never thought about it like that. "Oh," was all he could manage. What she'd said had charily picked apart and discarded his entire mindset towards his brother. Or just his jealousy. But there was one thing that she had left unaddressed. "Well, what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Everyone loves John; what about you?"

She scoffed. "My opinion of him is irrelevant - I don't think he'd go for a turian - and what about the Reapers he was giving it the big one about? I doubt they love him."

He noted that she hadn't answered the question.

"Why no- actually, never mind." _Why not a turian?_, he was going to say. Well, why not? But it was another question for another time. That time wasn't now.

Shana shrugged and turned to leave.

"Hey," he called. "Um, I... Thanks."

There was one last nod in his direction. Then she was gone again. James didn't follow. He knelt back down to sort through the last tiny pile of junk; there was a stupid grin on his face now. He felt a lot better. She'd done that in a couple of sentences. It was something he wouldn't forget for a while. That, and the Afterlife confrontational. Oh, god.

Then, while rifling through some more debris: a sharp pain in his hand. It was almost a welcome escape from the stupidly happy state he had worked himself into. "OW!" he yelped, and wrenched it back. Shana was there almost immediately, and, soon after, Shrike.

"James? What did you do?" Was he imagining her worried tone? Silently, he hoped to himself that he wasn't.

Then without warning, she grabbed his hand and turned it over upon noticing how he held it. There, on his palm, was the tiniest of tiny cuts. He bit his lip. "No – that's – is that it?!" Then she burst into laughter. James, however, was engaging himself with looking for a rock to crawl under. The closest he could find was the metal pile. He found himself considering it.

"...That's it? You're serious?" And there was that animated, exultant sort of timbre to Shana's voice again; the one that James had gotten used to. It was almost comforting.

James didn't reply. He had found the source of his cut, and was holding it in his hands.

"Let me see that." She knelt down next to him for a closer look.

The frame in James's hands demanded attention. Looking back at him, beyond the broken shards of glass, was a woman. Freckles were dotted here and there across her face, and a pair of warm, brown eyes reflected a smile; bore by a pair of full, rosy lips. Strands of messy blonde hair had escaped the ponytail she wore. James recognised the uniform atypical to spacers.

In her arms, she cradled a child. There were tufts of blonde hair standing atop its head, but the eyes were green. A knot formed in James' throat, and he put the frame aside.

Somewhere, a mother and her baby would be waiting for one of the men who had been a part of the crew of the very frigate they were standing in now. They would never be reunited with him. He wasn't coming back.

"Shana," He barely looked up, and their eyes met only for the briefest of seconds. "We have to find out who did this."

As usual, she did not answer immediately. James wondered what she was thinking about. Did she think that it was pointless? That they couldn't help the dead?

He didn't have to sit and guess. "Yes," she finally answered. "We do."


End file.
